


fag

by PreciselyVex (CrashEdit)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Come At Once spring 2018, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Smoking Kink, capnolagnia, smoking fetish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-06-01 05:27:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15136124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrashEdit/pseuds/PreciselyVex
Summary: No, not that kind.





	fag

**Author's Note:**

> Written in less than 24 hours as part of the "Come at Once" challenge.  
> I was tagged by phoenixfalls, with the prompt "fire".
> 
>  
> 
> (This is unbeta'd and was written on little to no sleep. Here's hoping it makes sense!)

 

 

_“Three of the four elements are shared by all creatures, but fire was a gift to humans alone. Smoking cigarettes is as intimate as we can become with fire without immediate excruciation. Every smoker is an embodiment of Prometheus, stealing fire from the gods and bringing it on back home. We smoke to capture the power of the sun, to pacify Hell, to identify with the primordial spark, to feed on the arrow of the volcano. It's not the tobacco we're after but the fire. When we smoke, we are performing a version of the fire dance, a ritual as ancient as lightning.”_

_\--Tom Robbins, “Still Life With Woodpecker”_

 

 

The truth was, it drove John Watson wild.

Of course, he wouldn’t admit it -- _couldn’t_ admit it, for fuck’s sake, he was a doctor, after all -- so when Sherlock finally quit smoking, he wouldn’t, couldn’t complain, could he? It was a positive, healthy move from a man who made very few of them, and as his own personal physician, John understood it, encouraged it and supported him in any way he could.

And yet…

The memory of Sherlock in profile, a plume of smoke leaving those heavenly lips, god. John had never actually envied an inanimate object before, but those cylinders of tobacco, so keenly desired by Sherlock, made John wish he could present that kind of allure. Before he’d quit, Sherlock’s cigarettes were truly his most constant companion, always at his side. Of course, they were just as abused and ignored as his more corporeal companions, too often left dangling, or frustratingly unlit, or simply left to ash between his impossibly lithe fingers. However, as with humans, when Sherlock did deign to give his cigarettes his full attention, they burned brightly, with each teasing clasp of Sherlock’s lips drawing more of the smoke into his lungs, coaxing the delivery of their most desired chemical rush.

It goes without saying that cigarettes are dangerous. There are 43 known cancer-causing compounds and 400 toxins found in the average cigarette and no one should smoke, John knew this. He also knew that science begrudgingly supported Sherlock’s official reason for carrying on with his habit for as long as he did: in small doses, nicotine does, in fact, act as a stimulant to the brain. More to the point, nicotine also acts in the bloodstream to calm the smoker, making, say, a consulting detective not only more capable of drawing conclusions, but allowing him to do so in a more rational, collected manner.

However, none of this had anything to do with why John missed the cigarettes when Sherlock quit.

John had grown up at the tail-end of cigarette smoking’s heyday. By then, everyone knew cigarettes would kill you, but in spite of this (or perhaps because of it) it was still cool to smoke. Old Hollywood images of James Dean and Marlon Brando presented black and white perfection, smoke swirling mystically around their heads. The Marlboro Man’s hypermasculine squint filled billboards that dotted the landscape, and as John grew older, film characters from James Bond to Tyler Durden reinforced the habit's image. By the time he moved in with Sherlock, John knew he’d developed his own addiction, and every time Sherlock would take a pull from a cigarette, John would see the moment from a decidedly cinematic viewpoint, another element of ultimate desire: popped collar, impossible cheekbones, sexy cigarette-squint.

Three weeks after Sherlock quit, John broke down and bought a pack of Silk Cuts. Sherlock had never been particularly brand-loyal, but he’d binned an empty pack of Silk Cuts at the end of their last case, so it felt right. As John waited in the queue, he ran his thumb over the raised purple insignia, tapping and re-tapping the box, packing and repacking the tobacco, imagining Sherlock doing it in his place. It wasn’t a purchase intended to tempt Sherlock - no, this was a private, sensory purchase for John and John alone.. The pack wouldn’t be smoked, rather it would live in the back of his bedside table drawer, a talisman, and if it happened to emerge on nights when John was alone and felt particularly...well, particular, he might just crack the plastic wrapper and inhale. _Break in case of emergency._

For two months, John kept it together, and Sherlock kept off the smokes. His nicotine patches had become an everyday presence, and John did his best not to express his loathing of their very existence. Sherlock eventually stopped rummaging through the house, looking for countless secret stashes of cigarettes. The addiction was clearly waning and Sherlock was winning. In public, John cheered his success, but in the privacy of his own room, unspoken and unexpressed, he desperately mourned Sherlock’s lost habit.

Life went on, as did work. Cases came and went, and the surgery surged over the long, hot summer. On one particularly trying day, followed by an even more challenging commute, John arrived home to find an empty flat -- _Sherlock out, then, perhaps at Barts?_ He went directly into the kitchen to pour himself a few fingers of whisky. Thus fortified, John settled into his chair, and reached for the remote control, happy at last to be home. Before he could turn on the telly, however, he detected a very tell-tale scent in the air.

_Smoke._

_Someone in the house._

Almost immediately, there was a thump from upstairs -- someone in his room? Quickly, John stood up and reached for the closest weapon at hand -- the fireplace fire iron. He ventured out into the hall and then moved slowly up the stairs to his bedroom, the cigarette smell growing stronger with every step. Presuming Mrs. Hudson hadn’t developed a new method of ingesting her soothers, the culprit was undoubtedly in his room. A few more careful paces, and then a fast turn of the doorknob revealed -- 

_Sherlock._

_Sherlock, in his favourite suit._

_Sherlock, in his favourite suit, looking out the window, with his back turned...and a cigarette burning in his fingertips._

 

“Sherlock?” John started, taking in the scene.

He did not turn to greet him. “You took longer than I thought,” Sherlock said, and took a long, pointed drag from his cigarette.

John steadied his own breath. “I -- right, you...I hadn’t realised you’d gone back to it.”

Sherlock turned at that. “But you had hoped, hadn’t you?”

“What? Of course not,” John lied. “I was very proud of you for kicking the habit. But, you know, it can take some time. Everyone falls off the wagon sometime. I don’t want you to be discouraged.”

“God, shut it, John,” Sherlock crossed the room in three long strides, cutting the distance between them until they stood face to face. “You always seemed to disapprove, you always lectured, and yet, when it went away, oh, how you pined.”

John feigned a laugh. “I don’t - I don’t know know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, yes, you do,” Sherlock smiled wickedly, and took another pull. The cherry flared, and smoke curled out of the corners of his mouth, sublime silver phantoms that began to dissipate almost immediately. The hand that held the cigarette reached out to John then, and gave him the slightest of pushes. “Sit down, John.”

John found himself nudged into his worn wingback chair. The chair directly faced his bed, and from this angle, he could see that in the centre of it, someone had placed his emergency pack of Silk Cut cigarettes. “Sherlock, what’s going on?”

“What does it look like?” Sherlock said, barely lifting his shoulder. “I’m having a smoke.”

“Those are my cigarettes,” John said, feeling simultaneously guilty and aroused. “This is my fault -- I shouldn’t have brought them in the house.”

“You can do what you want, John. And clearly," Sherlock said, pausing for effect, "you want.”

He took a few steps forward, prompting John sit back deeper into the chair, and look up in order to see his face.

John flexed his hand. “Listen, I’m not sure what you think is going on--”

“What I _know_ is going on, John.” He allowed his cigarette to dangle from his mouth, barely hanging on to his lower lip, prompting it to vibrate with every word Sherlock spoke. “You’ve been different lately -- more prone to bad temper, impatience, and a generally sullen disposition. At first, I blamed it on overwork: the surgery has been quite busy, after all. But then I became worried that your increase in alcohol consumption, paired with the fact that you’ve been spending quite a lot of time in your room lately, meant that you were drinking in private as well. Imagine my surprise when instead of a bottle, I found a covert packet of cigarettes.”

“Everyone has bad habits, Sherlock.”

“Smoking is not one of yours, John, never has been.”

“A habit can start at any time, can’t it?”

Sherlock shrugged, and took his cigarette back in hand, tapping out the ash and taking a deep draw. The flame glowed and crackled as he inhaled, and he held the smoke in his lungs for a very long while, all the while eyeing John. When he finally did exhale, he released a long, controlled stream of smoke, aimed directly into John’s face.

The move surprised John, catching him off guard, and he ended up inhaling a good deal of Sherlock’s smoke. John coughed and sputtered in response, hacking so forcefully it caused his eyes to tear up.

Sherlock smiled, his point proven. “A habit can start any time, John, but clearly, this is not your habit.” He cocked his head, then, and eyed John carefully. “Fortunately, I think I know precisely what your interest here is.”

At that, Sherlock placed the cigarette, growing shorter by the moment, between his teeth, leaving his hands free to remove his own jacket. The next few moments for John were magic. Watching Sherlock was like watching a dancer -- the grace of his limbs, the slip of the fabric, and the unhurried movement of the smoke throughout. John did his level best to contain himself, but his breathing certainly gave him away. Sherlock squinted to keep the smoke out of his eyes as he slowly and deliberately rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, taking his time. When he finally finished, the cigarette was very nearly extinguished. His hand reached for it, and, looking at it with a frown, he stubbed it out on the floor with his foot. John followed the action, mesmerized.

Sherlock smirked. “You don’t actually mind me doing that, do you?”

John hesitated only slightly before shaking his head.

Sherlock moved to the bed and retrieved the Silk Cut packet, flipping it over in his hands, rubbing the embossed purple logo with his thumb, just as John had imagined. He crossed the room, returning to the wingback. “How about if I chainsmoke? Do you mind that?"

“Go right ahead,” John said, looking up, and in a moment of bravery, dared to add. “Filthy habit, though.”

It was all Sherlock needed. In one fell move, he insinuated himself onto John’s lap. “I know filthier ones,” he said, and it was all John could do not to cry out.

“Thought you’d like that,” Sherlock continued, and fished a new cigarette out of the pack. Before placing it between his lips, he looked John squarely in the eyes. “So. Got a light?”

From his seated position, with Sherlock weighing heavily in his lap (and frankly, his own cock weighing even heavier), John scrambled to locate a lighter, patting his pockets until Sherlock mercifully nodded to a nearby drawer. John pulled it open, thanking god for small favours, and flicked the button with his fingers. After a few tries, the flame caught, and with only slightly shaking hands, John lit Sherlock’s cigarette.

He immediately took a drag, and exhaled before leaning in to John. Using the hand that held the cigarette, Sherlock lifted John's chin, and kissed him without any further discussion. The taste of the tobacco on Sherlock’s tongue transferred to John’s, the taste sharp and slightly sweet, reminding John of dangerous dates and thrillingly inappropriate moments in his youth. So moved, John wasn’t about to simply be kissed, so he kissed back with enthusiasm, nipping and biting at Sherlock’s lush mouth. Sherlock pulled back then, presumably to come up for air, but in actuality, he simply surfaced to come up for another drag. With no small amount of dramatic flair, Sherlock executed a perfect french inhale, the smoke drifting out of his mouth and back into his nose. To John, this was dead sexy, and he couldn’t stop himself from groaning deeply in response.

“Christ, that’s--”

“That’s what, John?”

“--sexiest fucking thing. More. Please.”

Sherlock complied, doing another french inhale, but this time he did it while simultaneously plunging his free hand into John’s increasingly stiffening lap. Just when John thought he couldn’t take anymore, Sherlock stopped, abruptly, and held up his cigarette. “Hold this for me?”

John, somewhat beyond words by this time, did as he was told. Sherlock then slipped himself between John’s thighs, sliding down until he was on the floor. His hands now free, they immediately went to John’s zip, and as he did, he inclined his head towards John,  opening his mouth just wide enough for John to feed the cigarette between those impossible lips. Sherlock inhaled, and then pulled away once more, pulling off John’s trousers and pants as well, in one cunning move. Looking up to make sure John was watching, Sherlock emptied his lungs over John’s erection before quickly taking him -- and a good deal of the smoke -- deeply into his mouth.

John whined and shifted his hips in response, the sight of the smoke and the sensation of Sherlock’s sinful mouth around him almost too much to bear. He clutched a hand into Sherlock’s hair, not able to take his eyes off him. From moment to moment, Sherlock would surface, and either John would feed him another drag or he’d take it for himself. It wasn’t until Sherlock showed his propensity for blowing perfect smoke rings that John let himself go, the rings encapsulating his cock as he came, his cum landing precisely on those pornographically pursed lips.

Later, in a darkness lit only by the glowing ember of Sherlock’s cigarette, they crawled into John’s bed, and John couldn’t help but ask: “So. Was that just for me?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

Sherlock rolled over to his side. “Well, capnolagnia has never been a particular fetish of mine,” he murmured, “but considering its effects on you, well, it’s quite an endorsement.”

“God, you’re gorgeous. The way your nostrils flare when you inhale, fuck, it sends shivers,” John said, “Makes me feel, I dunno. Reckless. Is that juvenile?”

“If beauty is, in fact, a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences and role models, then we’re all juvenile when it comes to attraction,” Sherlock said, simply, and turned to kiss John again, slowly exhaling into his mouth.

The taste of tobacco, the scent of the man around him, it was all perfect for John -- all perfect but for the one rather serious nagging concern, and John decided it was time to address it. “Sherlock, as truly mind-blowing as this has all been, it can’t continue. You understand that, yeah?”

Sherlock sat up. “I understand you feel guilty, but you really shouldn’t.”

“Yes, I should. My wants were utterly transparent to you and I brought the cigarettes into the house, after all the ground you’d gained over the last few months in kicking the habit. That’s not okay. So, as much as I adored all of this -- and adore it I did,” John said, taking the glowing cigarette from Sherlock’s hands, “I can’t allow you to smoke just to fulfill some kink of mine.”

“That’s very honourable, John,” Sherlock murmured, “very self-sacrificing, and you’re quite kind to worry about my health. But you really don’t have to.”

“I’m your doctor, Sherlock, of course I have to.”

“No, you don’t, not when you consider the facts.”

John furrowed his brow. “Which facts?”

“The fact that I haven’t been smoking Silk Cuts?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Look,” Sherlock explained. “I flushed the cigarettes and replaced them with herbal ones -- no, not that kind -- the kind they use in Hollywood films when actors don’t smoke but their characters do? Tobacco-free and 100% organic.”

John shook his head. “Are you pulling my leg? I tasted the tobacco!”

“Well, I did doctor them up a bit with a little smoke flavour,” Sherlock admitted, with a smile. “So you see, I never fell off the wagon, and there’s absolutely no reason we can’t continue as we have been -- although for the moment, I would like to pop downstairs, as I’m due for a fresh patch.”

“You filthy, wonderful man,” John said, staring at him in amazement. The lengths Sherlock went to, just to give John a bit of fun, it was all so remarkable. “Of course, go get your patch,” John said. Sherlock stood, and headed for the door. “But Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?”

“Do come back quickly,” John said. ”After all, one good kink deserves another, and I’d say it is definitely your turn.”

**Author's Note:**

> \- Learn about Capnolagnia [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Smoking_fetishism);  
> \- Are herbal Hollywood cigarettes a real thing? [You betcha!](http://www.honeyroseusa.com/)
> 
> Thanks for reading! It's 2:43AM and I'm EXHAUSTED! This challenge is INSANE!  
> <3  
> vex.


End file.
